


Recovery Model

by scrollgirl



Category: Highlander: The Series, House M.D.
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrollgirl/pseuds/scrollgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has reached his limit with House and Duncan MacLeod is pretty much the anti-House. Discontinued!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery Model

**Author's Note:**

> AU after "Merry Little Christmas" (_House_ 3x10). Incorporates large parts of _House_ S3-4 canon. Spoilers for _Highlander: the Series_ and _Highlander: the Raven_. Mostly ignores _Highlander: Endgame_. Pairings: primarily MacLeod/Wilson, House/Wilson; background Methos/Amy, Cameron/Chase.

Movement in the recessed entrance of the store had Duncan slowing his steps and shifting deeper into the shadows of the building. Homeless person seeking shelter, perhaps. The wind had picked up, and a light rain had slicked the streets and turned dirty snow to slush. Duncan debated sending the man off to St. Theresa; the soup kitchen had closed at 10pm, but they might still have free beds.

But a closer look revealed a man in his late thirties, well-groomed and well-dressed and green to the gills. Duncan grimaced at the small puddle of vomit decorating his welcome mat. Not homeless, then. Just drunk.

"Need me to call you a cab?" he asked, coming up behind the guy. Startled, the man nearly stepped into his own mess and only MacLeod's hand under his elbow saved his expensive shoes.

"What? No -- no, I'm fine," he stammered, backing away with his hands up. "My car's right there." He gestured to the silver sedan parked next to them.

Duncan frowned. "No offence, but I don't think you should be driving in your condition," he said, taking out his cell phone. "I'd be happy to call for a cab."

"I said I'm fine," the man protested. "I haven't been drinking, if that's what you're worried about."

He didn't smell of alcohol and his speech wasn't slurred, Duncan realised. But that didn't necessarily mean he was fit to drive. The man's left hand clutched at the front of his coat, the wool bunching as he kneaded his chest. His right fist was pressed hard against his belly. "If you're not feeling well, you should see a doctor."

The man's abrupt, hysterical laughter took Duncan by surprise; he shifted to the balls of his feet. But the man calmed down as suddenly as he'd lost it. "I _am_ a doctor," he said with a bitter, bitter smile. "God knows why." Pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling slowly, the man deflated, looking utterly miserable and lost.

Duncan reached out to clasp the man's shoulder, then hesitated. It was late, and raining, and he'd just spent twelve hours in a soup kitchen, serving hot meals and negotiating a ceasefire between an asshole new guy and the regulars he'd riled. He was expected at Methos and Amy's for breakfast at 6am, which was the latest they could convince Sarah to stay in bed on Christmas morning. But Duncan suspected she'd stop pretending to sleep by 5am and start demanding her presents by 5:15, and he wanted to be there for that.

If nothing else, the last few years had been a brutal reminder that even he had his limits. And God, he was tired. He'd done his good deed for the day, and then some.

The man, even with his eyes closed, somehow sensed Duncan's reluctance and ducked out from under his hand. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, head bowed. Taking a few deep breaths, he finally straightened and looked Duncan in the eye. "I really do apologise," he said, with a smile as pretty and artificial as the Christmas tree in the window display. "I don't normally act like such a nutcase."

With every polite and perfunctory word, the man gained more control, smoothing himself out and pulling into an untouchable shell. But rather than feel relief that he could leave the man to his own devices, Duncan felt a pang of sympathy and guilt. Here was another man whose well was almost dry. Here was a man like him.

"I'm sorry, I should introduce myself," he said, holding out a hand. "Duncan MacLeod." The man hesitated, but couldn't avoid the introduction without being rude.

"James Wilson." His handshake was very professional: perfect timing, perfect grip.

"Pleased to meet you, James, even under the circumstances." When the man moved to go, Duncan stepped forward again. His conscience could not let somebody in real need go by. "Look, if there's anything I can do to help..." He grinned a little. "'Tis the season, after all."

"I appreciate it, but I'm fine. Honest." James smiled again, looking as if he'd never been seconds away from a meltdown. He'd tucked his hands into his coat pockets, no longer clutching at himself. But his rigid posture betrayed him to one as versed in body language as Duncan MacLeod.

"It's been my experience," Duncan said quietly, moving closer with his hands spread, "that the only times I start acting like a nutcase are the times I'm very close to actually _being_ a nutcase."

James looked shocked, then furious. His polite mask cracked in half. "He's the one with the problem, not me!" he spat, face turning red. He jabbed a finger into Duncan's chest. "He's the one who spits in my face when I try to help him!" He jabbed him again. "He's the one who won't just fucking die and get it over with!" Now he shoved him until Duncan gave way.

"Hey!" Duncan grabbed his wrists and shook him once. "Hey, James, come on! Calm down!" The man struggled for a moment, then went suddenly limp in Duncan's arms. He turned white as a ghost and looked ready to vomit again.

"God, oh God, I didn't mean that," he moaned, shaking his head over and over. "I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't mean it." His breathing turned into sharp gasps. "He just made me so _angry_."

"Hey, look at me," Duncan ordered, propping the man against his own car. "James, look at me." Duncan ducked his head to meet his eyes. "Is your friend okay? Did you do something to him?"

James shook his head even harder, his face screwed up in a struggle not to cry. "I didn't do anything, just left him on the floor," he gasped. "He overdosed on oxycodone he stole from my dead patient and I _left him there_. God, how could I just leave him there?"


End file.
